by Harold Coyle
Alford stuffed his hands in his field jacket and nodded. “Strategic something?”
“Solutions. Strategic Solutions in Arlington. I’ve been liaison with them for a while, as well as some other contractors. It’s a good outfit with top-notch leadership. Admiral Derringer says I can start work for him at noon tomorrow if I want.”
“Doing what?”
“More of the same — for good money and damn little travel. It’s just about perfect, especially with Brian still in school.”
“Well, sir, how can I help?”
“Red, this is close hold for now. That’s why I called to say I was coming in person.” He allowed himself to smile. “Besides, it’s good to get out of D.C.”
“Hoo-ah that, sir.”
“Strategic Solutions is likely to have a job with the State Department in Chad.”
Alford rocked back on his heels as if struck on the jaw. “Oh… my… God!”
Main chuckled aloud. “All right, you see where I’m headed with this. It’s a training mission: weapons, tactics, and counterinsurgency.”
“And Third Special Forces Group just happens to have the African part of the world! No wonder you came down to Bragg. You’re a damn headhunter, Colonel!”
Main shrugged. “If you want to hunt ducks, you gotta go where the ducks are. I remember somebody telling me that quite some time ago. Sergeant.”
Alford looked around, as if concerned somebody might hear him. “Dave, if the green beanies knew why you’re here, they’d ban you for life. Cripes a’mighty! You’re looking for gold-plated people who speak Arabic and — what? — French?”
“Qui, mon sergeant.”
“You got any idea how tight the Army is about folks like that? I mean, holy shit! Somebody who can explain how to field strip a weapon in freakin’ Arabic?”
“Which is exactly why I’m asking for some leads, Red. Oh, yeah, while I’m here I’ll talk to Third Group’s S-1, and a request is going through channels but that’ll take weeks. Besides, they’re not going to tell me everything they know, and I can’t blame them. Meanwhile, the clock’s running. But you, Sergeant Major Alford, you know who’s who and, more important, who’s getting out or thinking of getting out.” Main raised his eyebrows suggestively.
Alford folded his arms and chewed his lip. “What’s in it for me?”
Main was taken aback. He had never known Charles Ambrose Alford to barter with a friend. “Well, I don’t know, Red. I’m not authorized to offer a bounty… or anything.”
“How about a referral fee?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Damned if I know,” Alford replied. “How’s a grand per head sound?”
Main opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“Gotcha!” Alford swung a roundhouse right that connected with Main’s left arm, knocking him off balance.
“You bastard.” Main made a show of rubbing his bicep.
Alford led his former CO back to the firing line. “Hey, you oughta get up here more often. We’ve got a real nice club with matches most weekends.” He grinned his toothy smile again. “We can shoot for beers. Hell, I’ll even spot you, oh, three seconds per stage.”
“I thought you said you don’t shoot much anymore.”
Alford grinned again. “I lied.”
8
SSI OFFICES
The staff meeting included Frank Leopole as head of operations, Omar Mohammed as director of training, and Jack Peters as director of recruiting.
As DO, Leopole chaired the meeting, which was focused on selecting the Chad team. “Okay, people, listen up. Language skill is crucial to this contract: French and Arabic. We still don’t have enough folks who are fluent in Arabic but we’re recruiting some well-qualified guys from under SpecOps’ noses. Fort Bragg and Hurlbert Field will scream bloody murder but hey, it’s a dog-eat-dog business world, you know?”
With no response to the rhetorical question, Leopold proceeded. “All right, I think we all know the obvious choices. Let’s start with J. J. Johnson. Jack, have you talked to him?”
“Yesterday morning. I reached him at his home town in Idaho. He saw the advantages but he’s not real enthused about going to Chad.”
Leopole smirked. “Who is? What’d he say about the bonus?”
“Said he’d think about it. If I don’t hear back by Thursday I’ll call again…”
“Yes?” Leopole sensed that Peters was not finished.
“Well, I really don’t think that Johnson is going to be swayed by money. He’s just not wired that way. I mean, nobody joins the Foreign Legion for the pay! Right now I think it’s a matter of how well he’s recovered from—”
Leopold interrupted. “Oh, I think he’s recovered. I’m just not sure he’ll want to go. Even before the Pakistan op he was talking about settling down, getting a real job, and finding Miss Right.”
“Well, I guess I can understand it,” Peters responded. “I mean, a hitch in the Foreign Legion and then the way the Pakistani terrorists whipped the skin off him.” Peters shook his head. “Poor bastard was practically flayed.”
“But you know what he did, don’t you?” Leopold responded. “He killed a guard, captured another and took him with him, and won a shoot-out with three others. J. J. may seem a quiet, pleasant young man, but I’ve learned something. You gotta watch out for the quiet ones.”
Mohammed interjected in his cultured French accent. “Mr. Peters is right. Men such as J. J. are not motivated by pay but consider this: he joined the Legion as a young man in search of adventure and a chance to prove himself. He has done that, and more. Now, at age thirty or so, he wants to start building something for himself. I know for a fact that he would like to start a family.” He shrugged eloquently. “Perhaps we should send someone to talk to him in person.”
Peters accepted the training director’s assessment. He knew Dr. Mohammed as a perceptive student of the human animal; astute enough to work as a psychologist if he wished. “All right, we’ll do that. And I can sweeten the pot a bit by offering him a supervisory position. With his language ability and military background, he would have instant credibility with our clients.”
Leopole interjected, “Okay, J. J.’s a possible. What about Dave Main’s raid on Fort Bragg?”
Peters’s brown eyes twinkled. “Well, as you can imagine, he wasn’t exactly greeted with open arms. But he dropped a few nickels in the right slots and got some return. We have three prospects: Special Forces guys with French and/or Arabic ability. I’ll know more in a couple of days.”
“When are they available?” Sandy Carmichael was thinking ahead of the game, mentally juggling the increasingly tight schedule with known and possible assets.
“One just got out and sounds like a sure thing. The others have put their papers in. We may have the admiral pull some strings to expedite their release.”
“I was hoping that Dave would turn up more than three.” Carmichael had a lot of confidence in her West Point classmate but she was secretly disappointed that he had not called before his trip to North Carolina. Leopole was looking at her with his head cocked. She tried hard not to blush. Frank knows, damn it. Not quite an office romance, but the next thing to it.
Peters and Mohammed also noticed Sandra Carmichael’s cheeks turn pink. Both inferred the correct meaning.
“Well, it’s still a bit early,” Peters offered. “Colonel Main has one or two other leads to follow.”
Leopole glanced at his briefing list. “All right, then. We still need at least three other trainers. I’d like to have SF people because they make their money training the locals. But if we have to dip into our usual bag, I think we can count on Boscombe and Brezyinski.”
Sandy Carmichael rolled her baby blues. Omar Mohammed permitted himself a smile through his goatee. “Bosco and Breezy. Good boys.”
Peters was only vaguely acquainted with the former paratrooper and Ranger. “Something I should know?”
Leopole, who had wo
rked with both more than once, chuckled aloud. “Some people consider them the Laurel and Hardy of SSI. But they’re good, they’re reliable, and they’re available.”
Sandy said, “I know they don’t speak Arabic, but does either of them speak French?”
“Hell, they hardly speak English!” The former Marine rapped his knuckles in appreciation at his own humor.
Mohammed waved a placating hand. “What is important is their knowledge. They can demonstrate anything the Chadians need to know. With translators, they can manage just fine. Besides, if there’s a problem, there is no one I would rather have along.”
Leopole flipped a check mark on his paper.
“Okay. What about Martha?”
Carmichael sat back in her padded chair, trying to conjure a reason to decline the suggestion.
Martha Whitney: smart, sassy and articulate. She read people well — a product of the Detroit streets. Because Carmichael and Whitney were influential women within SSI, many staffers assumed they were close. It was a reasonable conclusion: both were single mothers— Carmichael with two daughters, Whitney with college-age sons — who had been successful in a previously all-male environment.
Carmichael could not think of a valid reason for voicing opposition, other than the fact that she cordially disliked Martha Whitney. That made Carmichael a member of a big club. “Well, I suppose we can consider her.”
Leopole spread his hands. “What’s to consider, Sandy? My God, she’s smart, she’s capable, she’s qualified. And she’s black!”
“Yeah, I know,” she said resignedly. “That would be an advantage in Chad.”
“Well then?” Leopole allowed the question to dangle in midair.
“Well, for one thing she’s a staffer without much field experience. I mean, she’s very good at what she does but…”
“That sounds a lot like you,” Leopole interjected. He gave Carmichael his patented gotcha grin. “Besides, she has field experience from the Agency. She just hasn’t got her hands dirty in a few years.”
“I’m just saying that in a heavily Muslim country a woman isn’t going to be accepted as an authority figure.”
“She doesn’t have to be in authority Sandy.” Leopole was tiring of the sparring. He thought that he knew what lay behind Carmichael’s aversion to Whitney. The forty-one-year-old Detroit native had proven her worth in CIA covert ops before joining SSI, where her Agency contacts were valuable. Lieutenant Colonel Carmichael envied Whitney’s record as an agent — something Carmichael herself relished, but she knew that she would draw too much attention in the field. Her prom-queen good looks were a detriment in most situations.
Sensing his advantage, Leopole pressed ahead. “There’s something else to consider.Parlez-vous français?”
“You know I don’t.” Carmichael was semifluent in Italian.
“Well, one of her grandparents was Haitian. She passed the government fluency test in French. Eighty-three percent, I think.”
Peters, who had not run SSI recruiting until recently, was barely acquainted with Whitney. “How much of that sassy mouth of hers is legit and how much is insecurity?”
Leopole shrugged. “Damifiknow. But I tell you what: I’ve seen her at work. When things get reeeal tense, she’s pretty damn cool. Jabbers like a blue jay when the smoke clears, but Martha can hack the program.
“There’s another advantage, and for obvious reasons I wouldn’t want it repeated. I mean, she’s an overweight black woman who’s not very attractive. Nobody’s going to look at her and think she’s a threat.”
Carmichael shot Leopole a feminine dart. I am Woman, hear me roar. “That’s pretty shallow, isn’t it, Frank?”
“Tactical, babe. Tactical.”
Omar Mohammed, who had grown to like Frank Leopole despite their initial coolness, decided to intervene on the former Marine’s side. “As long as we are committed to Chad, a black woman would be advantageous. She could be especially helpful in surveillance.”
Leopole nodded his crew-cut head. “Absolutely.”
Peters merely said, “Concur.”
Carmichael threw up her hands, literally and figuratively. “Okay.” She tended to twitch her nose at such moments. Leopole wondered what it was about Sandys — he had never known one who wasn’t downright cute.
Nobody had ever said that about Martha Whitney.
9
N’DJAMENA, CHAD
“Alex, they are moving again.” The younger member of the surveillance team spoke into his lightweight headset. As the limousine pulled away from the Hotel D’Afrique, he let it go halfway down the block before he kicked his Vespa scooter into gear. He trailed it at a discreet distance, using some of the capital’s traffic to screen his presence.
His earpiece crackled as the carrier wave was activated. “Maintain contact,” the senior partner said.
The limo departed the hotel in the west side of town and took the street parallel to the Chari River, passing the U.S. Aid office just off Gouverneur Felix Eboue. It passed the federal buildings, town hall, and police headquarters along Rue du Colonel Moll, the avenue commemorating a notable French officer who died in 1908, fighting tribesmen near Djirbel.
The scooter tailed the limousine through a dogleg right through the Place de l’Etoile on General de Gaulle. From there it was nearly a straight run up Commandant Curlu, passing the National Assembly on the left en route to the airport on the north side of the capital.
Approaching the passenger terminal, the limo’s brake lights came on. The Vespa driver checked his tail, swerved to the corner just ahead of an ancient Citroen, and stopped beside a taxi stand. He gave the attendant a ten-dollar bill worth about five thousand Chad francs and promised another if the Vespa was still there in an hour or so.
The chauffeur and passengers emerged from the limousine: four men and a woman whom the surveillance operative confirmed as his marks. He turned away from them as they struggled with their luggage, speaking discreetly into his handset. “Subjects arrived at departure. Proceeding normally.”
“Continue observation” was the terse reply.
With the aid of the chauffeur, two passengers and a couple of porters, the luggage was taken to the Air France counter. Following check-in the three travelers exchanged farewells with their hosts, the older man and the woman, apparently his wife. She was fortyish, well coiffed, and gave each traveler a continental kiss: left cheek, right cheek, left.
The Vespa driver noticed that during the parting the older man spoke with one of the travelers with earnest brevity. A heartfelt hug and they parted. The older man and woman returned to the limousine.
The limo had diplomatic plates. Anybody with knowledge of the numbers would have identified it as belonging to the French embassy.
While the surveillance operative walked toward his scooter he made one more transmission. “Subjects departed for Paris.”
As he reached in his pocket to pay the attendant, he was approached from behind. Strong, silent men grasped each arm, took him a few steps to the curb, and shoved him into a waiting van. The door slid shut as the Volkswagen drove away.
10
SSI OFFICES
Leopole asked, “Jack, have you heard back from Main?”
Jack Peters felt a bit defensive; he had ceded some of his responsibility to Sandra Carmichael, head of foreign ops. “Not yet — it’s only been a couple of days. But I told him that we need small-arms and tactics instructors qualified in French and Arabic. The most likely prospects are Special Forces guys since one of their missions is training local people.” He almost said “indigenous personnel” but thought better of it. SSI was not big on Pentagonese.
Leopole twirled the pencil between his fingers. “Well, these days the French part shouldn’t cause much fuss. But Arabic speakers are golden. We might have to call in some markers to get a couple of those guys.” He looked back at Mohammed. “Unless…”
Seated across the room, Omar Mohammed read his colleague’s mind. “Oh
, no you don’t. Non. Laa.” He waved a deprecatory hand.
Leopole got the drift, though he spoke neither French nor Arabic. However, Omar Mohammed spoke them fluently, and five other languages besides. Now he was nearing completion of a course in Indonesian.
“Hey, you did just fine in Pakistan on the Pandora Project,” Leopole insisted.
Mohammed almost winced at the memory. “Only because I was the default for Pashto and Urdu.” He shook his head. “Nope, no way, Jose.” The latter phrase, incongruously crafted in Dr. Mohammed’s cultivated tones, drew immediate grins and chuckles around the table. With his dignified manner and elegant Vandyke beard, Mohammed appeared the last person in Arlington, Virginia, who would employ colloquialisms.
Leopole spoke to Peters again. “Jack, I take it that our standby files don’t have anybody with the language and technical skills just now.”
“The people we have on file are qualified either in French or Arabic, or they’re gun guys. Not both, other than J. J. But I’ll see if Dave can get his personnel contacts to move faster.”
Mohammed had a thought: “Where is Alex Cohen? After all, he speaks fluent Arabic.”
Leopole and Carmichael exchanged glances. Without waiting for Leopole, she replied, “Ah, he’s traveling. Besides, I don’t think an Israeli-American would be too popular in a Muslim—”
“Sorry I’m late, everybody!”
Martha Whitney burst into the room. It was odd, Carmichael thought, how Martha inevitably “burst.” Partly it was her joie de vivre; partly it seemed calculated. Martha was a thespian at heart — always “up,” always “on.”
Most of her colleagues thought it noteworthy that Whitney, who hailed from Detroit, usually affected a southern accent. It was as if she went through life doing a decent impersonation of Pearl Bailey. At forty-eight, she was heavier than a few years before, partly the result of bearing and rearing two sons.
“There was a three-car pile-up on 395 just before the Washington exit,” she explained. “I tell you what, baby, it looked pretty bad when I drove past. There was this Subaru with the front end all…”
